Ariadne's Children Stop at Nothing

Somehow, we carry on,
Tatting our universe
With lace syllogisms,
Squinty-eyed, impoverished
Decorators of ways,

Embroiderers of paths
With fine webs of logic,
Too elegant for truth,
Sweetly as they outline
Limitations and lies:
Retracing our traces,

We're always en route.
We've always arrived.
We're just about here now,
And we've already passed.
We're barely out the door,
And already we're lost.